AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?
‘Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? – planting rue?’
‘No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
“It cannot hurt her now,” he said,
“That I should not be true.” ’
Then who is digging on my grave?
My nearest dearest kin?’
‘Ah, no: they sit and think, “What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death’s gin.” ’
‘Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say – since I have not guessed!”
‘O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest!’
‘Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave….
Why flashed it not on me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog’s fidelity!’
‘Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case (in case)
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting-place.’
Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?
with Deborah Foster and violinist, Liz Gonzales
GREAT THINGS
Sweet cider is a great thing,
A great thing to me,
Spinning down to Weymouth town
By Ridgway thirstily,
And maid and mistress summoning
Who tend the hostelry:
O Cyder is a great thing,
A great thing to me!
The dance it is a great thing,
A great thing to me,
With candles lit and partners fit
For night-long revelry;
And going home when day-dawning
Peeps pale upon the lea:
O dancing is a great thing,
A great thing to me!
Love, it is a great thing
A great thing to me,
When having drawn across the lawn
In darkness silently,
A figure flits like one a-wing
Out from the nearest tree:
O love it is a great thing,
A great thing to me!`
Will these be always great things,
Great things to me?...
Let it befall that One will call,
‘Soul, I have need of thee:’
What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings,
Love and its ecstacy,
Will always have been great things,
Great things to me!
THE RUINED MAID
‘O Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in town!
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?’ –
‘O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?’ said she.
You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!
‘Yes”: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,’ said she.
At home in the barton you said “thee” and “thou”,
And “thik oon”, and “theas oon” and “t’other” but now
Your talking quite fits ’ee for high compa-ny!’ –
‘Some polish is gained when one’s ruined,’ said she.
‘Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!’ –
‘We never do work when we’re ruined,’ said she.
‘You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!’ –
‘True, One’s pretty lively when ruined,’ said she.
‘I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!’ –
‘My dear – a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,’ said she.
TO LIZBIE BROWN
Dear Lizbie Brown,
Where are you now?
In sun, in rain?
Or is your brow
Past joy, past pain,
Dear Lizbie Brown?
Sweet Lizbie Brown,
How you could smile,
How you cold sing!-
How archly wile
In glance-giving,
Sweet Lizbie Brown!
And, Lizbie Brown,
Who else had hair
Bay-red as yours,
Or flesh so fair
Bred out of doors,
Sweet Lizbie Brown?
When, Lizbie Brown,
You had just begun
To be endeared
By stealth to one,
You disappeared
My Lizbie Brown!
Ay, Lizbie Brown,
So swift your life,
And mine so slow,
You were a wife
Ere I could show
Love, Lizbie Brown.
Still, Lizbie Brown,
You won, they said,
The best of men
When you were wed….
Where went you then,
O Lizbie Brown?
Dear Lizbie Brown,
I should have thought,
‘Girls ripen fast,’
And coaxed and caught
You ere you passed,
Dear Lizbie Brown!
But, Lizbie Brown,
I let you slip;
Shaped not a sign
Touched never your lip
With lip of mine,
Lost Lizbie Brown!
So, Lizbie Brown,
When on a day
Men speak of me
As not, you’ll say,
‘And who was he?’ –
Yes, Lizbie Brown!
To Lizbie Brown
with violinist, Liz Gonzales
